


actus reus

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Angst, F/M, I don't know, Lyanna Stark Lives, Middle Ages, fractured timeline, implied PTSD, implied infanticide, thought i'd give it another try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: They survive. Somehow.





	actus reus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“That cannot be?” She holds the small bundle of flesh close to her, the cries ringing loud in her ears. She had written. Lyanna’s breaths come in short, their sharpness cutting through the dominating heaviness that pressed over her mind as she tries to piece together what has been said. But Willa is already gone.

She looks down at her child, at his wrinkled face, the soft skin blooming red with every sob. She gives him a finger, the tip upon which he suckles. Her babe is quiet. “I am so sorry.” There is nothing fr it as far as she is concerned, she stand for it to be. So Lyanna gathers the boy back to her chest, pressing the side of his face against her chest. “Hush, child. Hush, or the snarks will grab you.”

He is warm and soft, almost like a sponge cake, she thinks. And so very fragile.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You must get out of bed sometime,” her brother says, trying to rouse her. Fortunately for her she owes him no allegiance, her vows did not include listening to him. For that reason, she drags her covers over her head and wills him away.

Unfortunately for her, Ned does drag her shield away. “You will get out of bed and you will come down and break your fast with us.” To strengthen his point, he tugs on her shoulder. “If I must drag you, I will.”

Their eyes meet. They both hold. “I shall only be ill. You mustn’t concern yourself for me. I only wish to lie here.”

“And I only wish for you to come down.” He does not budge. Lyanna supposes she must be slipping for she gives up far earlier that she would have a few years in the past. “You will indulge me.”

“I suppose I must, must I not?” So much for her hopes

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The woman trembles as she hands Lyanna a small cup so she might quench her thirst. Her thin lips are pressed together as she takes what is offered. Pain flares to life along her middle. She winces and her grip grows stronger. “What is it, Willa?”

The servant woman shakes her head and murmurs something which is hardly the explanation Lyanna was looking for. Nevertheless, she is forced to accept it for the time being as she cannot chase after the woman, stuck as she is to the bed. That does not stop her from arming herself with a harsh tone for when Willa returns.

“You are not to keep anything from me,” she orders when the woman does come back, laden with sheets. “I demand to know what is happening.” Willa sighs and drops the sheets, turning fully towards Lyanna. “Willa.”

“I cannot, m’lady. I pray you do not ask further.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She sits up in the tall grass, watching the children play from afar. There is a surge of amusement passing through her when one of the girls falls and instead of helping her up, her friends set to teasing her. The sprite does not bow down to it though, she rises quick as a flash and turns the tables upon her companions.

Robb stops long enough to wave at her. She waves back.

The relative peace lasts about as long as a nice summer day. Ned drops down next to her. He does that from time to time, and she suspects it is the reason for a good number of rows with his lady wife. “The King has written.  You are to return to King’s Landing.”

“Why?” Her fingers twist in the folds of her skirts.

“Because he requires it of you. And he is the King.”

Her heart beats all the faster.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What is it?” She tried to catch a glimpse of the little ball of flesh she had somehow managed to force without her own body. It must not want to be here, it cries and screams, and she can smell the blood. “Is it a daughter?” She had been asking the gods for a daughter. She hopes they had listened.

“A son,” the midwife speaks, placing the cleaned mite into her arms. Lyanna feels as though she is looking into a distorted mirror. A dark head of hair and clouded eyes and a pink bit of flesh assuring her the gods do precisely as they wish, not beholden to her in any way. “A healthy boy.”

She worries, for a brief moment. She worries that Rhaegar will be disappointed. But then she has enough love inside of her to make up for any of it, at least that is what she tells herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her brother embraces her. Ned has always been the outwardly gentle one. But within she knows he is as firm as a rock. Lyanna takes what comfort she can though. “Your old chambers have been prepared. The rest is likely to be precisely as you remember it.” That is not a truth. Lyanna glances at him. “Come, you must be tired.”

Lady Catelyn watches her from some distance. She holds her child to her protectively. Lyanna finds she cannot blame her. This one does not make her stomach squeeze. He is too old for it. And much too red-haired if that makes any sort of sense. “I rather am.” She is not. She will not be able to sleep, but at least no one will force-feed her, no one will question whether she is better this day than she was before. She can spend her days in bed and no one will try dragging her out.        

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur holds her hand, his frown not lessening. But Lyanna cannot stop now. “I have to know. Tell me.” He swallows and the hesitation rips at her. “Whatever it is, I have to know.” Later she will wish she never asked, for now, though, her fingers twist around the man’s arm as the pain grows in intensity. Her feet falter. Arthur catches her, gentle but firm.

“You must rest, my lady.” It is so much easier for him to pick her up than it is for her to stop him. Lyanna gives in after a token protest. She holds onto his shoulders, wishing Rhaegar were here, or one of her brothers, or her father. A shuddering breath later, she can barely hold back from whimpering. “We shall speak when you are delivered of your babe.”

“But I–“

“His Grace would not thank us were you or the babe harmed.” Her further protests fall on deaf ears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna is convinced she is useless. Her hand rests just over her heart, pressing hard into the flesh, trying to stop it from beating, if she can, if only she could. She cannot even look at the girl. She cannot even help the vitriol surging through her because this is all her fault and yet whenever her eyes land upon the perfect, delicate Princess all she can think of is her son’s soft face crushed into her side.

“What is it with you?” Rhaegar rounds on her, forcibly turning her to face him. “What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?”

“What would you understand?” she snaps at the man. “What do you know of pain so stark it is raw beyond the thin crust which has form, it pierces through any wall I can possibly set up and will not let me be. What do you know of destroying all you’ve ever loved?”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is no warmth to her greeting. There is little enough affection in the way he looks at her. For a brief moment, she wonders if he wants to put the pieces of them back together or simply dissolve anything and everything. After all, he no longer has anything to lose.

Thus, instead of waiting on him to apply the blow, she goes ahead and makes her own suggestion. “If you set me aside, you could wed, have an heir.”

“I already have an heir.”  

“An heir of your own, Your–“

“I already have an heir,” he repeats forcefully. “We shall not pursue this any longer.” She nods.

“Why did you call me back?” He does not need her.

 “You are my wife.” As if that is explanation enough. “I want to hear it from you, what went on, everything you can, will tell.” She frowned. “I cannot forgive what I do not know.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

She wakes bathed in cold sweat, her stomach roiling, rebelling against what little she had managed to swallow. Lyanna falls out of bed, half-crawling, half-lunging for the chamber pot. She heaves and breathes hard, her trembling fingers liable to knock the mess she had made over. Movement registers behind her.

A cool hand touches the damp back of her neck. “Sick again?” She flinches. “I will call for the maester.”

“No.” It comes out more as a whine than an order. “There is no need.” He pats her head and pulls her hair back. She cannot make out his features in the dark but she imagines he looks worries. And she hates him for it. She wishes he felt her alone. She wishes he would grow cold and distant.

“This cannot go on. You’ve barely slept this week.” It can go on. It has to. How else will she ever pay?  

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
